my mom told me she is too old to go back to school
that her memory is not what it once was.
she must have forgot that you cant learn if you are
constantly teaching. the reason why i know how to
love like my blood is draining and to give like
everything you ever touch might save something one day.
i fixate on a point down the road while
the story you tell turns into rocks
the tires of your three coloured car
trample over. i despise my need for safety
and i despise how i despise your recklessness.
whoever steers the ship that is my
thoughts and beliefs has been driving
a long time, he is tired but his
grip is firm.
i feel like a hack today
i am twenty and driving through the dark.
not really driving, im shotgun
making up for lost time.
driving through the dark, too cold to crack the windows.
the music blaring, we sing along so loud.
i am twenty, singing loud to the radio,
making up for lost time.
i watch the other cars drive past us
going the opposite direction.
why aren't they going the same way we are?
chasing the dead trees on the black night highway.
i hope they are making up for lost time too.
i hope they are going to drink in a field
or kiss a crush at a house party.
something they should have done awhile ago.
On my last subway ride
I fixate on the plastic map that rims the gap above the exit.
My eyes follow from Ossington, west down the line two.
I stare with such detail.
If the subway weren’t so packed
maybe I’d steal that map for myself.
Put my hands on each corner
and pull out the edges from their holders.
Roll it up into my hoodie
and sneak out like I’d stolen a priceless jewel.
Too many people on the subway I thought, that’s why I won’t.
I take the 44 home from the subway,
and think about how ***** it feels.
How it wasn’t the storybook ending I imagined.
Where everyone hugs and maybe someone cries.
The sky was grey and I was running errands.
As I left for the train station early next morning
I thought about how I may never see these buildings the same way. You have to be in the city to see the buildings this way.
Looking out at the patios that riddle the downtown outskirt condo’s, each floors’ stacked on top of another.
How nice it must be to live so close to a skyline.
How nice it must be to stand outside and still miss the rain.
i love you toronto
i cannot write for **** anymore.
i have lost my ability to compel.
to even express.
anything and everything i feel is hiding from me
in some part of my body ive never reached
because it knows what i will do if i catch it.
rip out its inside like squishing a blueberry.
just a quick meal until i am off to **** its friends.
i am no tortured artist, just trying to shield.
i cant wait to read this in a year and applaud
for subtle progress, but me and i my friend
are stuck in different muds.
i will put the things i love
next to the things i hate
and let them scrap it out.
whichever one wins gets to
decide ******* me.
i dont know if i have
writing in me i dont know if
i can be honest with you.
you the reader that is.
there is so much i cannot
tell you. i can tell you how
i feel but that does not
make for compelling words.
i thought this was supposed to
be freeing. i have never felt so
trapped by openness.
someone should just tie me
to the headboard and leave me to
melt maybe then i could
be honest with you
i have an affinity for cool **** and will spend the rest of my life trying
to explain how it feels to float.
and when i say cool **** i mean things that will make you swing the spotlight.
i finally have a night worth remembering and while im drunk in the uber, the driver hits two potholes.
they sync up to the kick-drums on the radio and i write that down so i never forget it.
but i never forget the things i write down, not because they're always there but because i gave them the time they deserved.